Va, Vis Et Deviens (Go, See, and Become) Page #5

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A simple unselfish phone call.

Yes, hold on.

Schlomo, phone for you.

I don't believe it!

You're back and you don't even call?

- I just...

- You don't love me anymore?

Just kidding!

How was the kibbutz?

- Great, I loved it.

- I hate it.

It's so cheesy,

the land, the cows, the chickens,

"look at the exploits

of our parents."

Are Ethiopian men

allowed to marry whites?

What? Why?

Just curious, that's all.

Just to see if you could marry

a white woman one day.

Dunno. Want me to find out?

Forget it. It's alright.

How's Mandala doing?

We write, she lives far away.

You write letters, too?

Yes... not beautiful,

short, telegraphic.

I said to him:

"Can Ethiopians marry whites?"

Isn't that clear?

Does he need a drawing?

He said:
"Want me to find out?"

Do I need to send him a fax?

He exasperates me...

That Mandala's such a b*tch!

Yes, we can marry whites.

But...

But?

But the day she marries an Ethiopian,

the white woman becomes black.

Put my mask on.

You're younger.

You've got all your life

in front of you.

And you've got to find your mother.

You're not allowed to die before.

Hello.

You come home at this hour?

At least call after an alert

to say you're alive!

God damn it.

We've got to save money, Yael.

Cut down on expenses.

Let's go somewhere else.

To France or Canada...

You have two sons,

you know what that means.

I know, two future soldiers.

They'll go to war like you.

You think I want that?

- Then let's go.

- Who will stay?

The right-wing fools who want war?

Who'll vote for peace?

They're your children.

This is my country.

Several years later - 1993

- Yes to peace!

- No to the occupation!

Things will be better now, darling.

Let's try!

I'm black.

You don't see it anymore.

I don't give a sh*t!

For me, you're...

You're red.

I've got to go.

Forget it.

The river dried up months ago.

The little water left

in the river bed is filthy.

It's the source of the dysentery

sweeping the camp.

This camp was built

just 8 weeks ago.

Today it's home

for 90,000 refugees.

The world is pouring in medicine

as fast as it can,

but it has failed

to prevent that kind of disaster

from these people left behind

in Ethiopia.

They came in the hope

of recovery from the diseases

due to months of starvation

and dehydration.

The doctors are doing their best,

yet illnesses, so easily

prevented, kill children every day.

There is overcrowding,

and many are too weak

to respond to treatment

like vaccination

and intensive feeding.

By common consent, many who

are dying could've been saved

if aid teams had been

in position at the border

and waiting

as they came across.

The Sudanese protest

they must feed

thousands of Ethiopians

as well as their own.

The U.S.,

the one country able to respond,

is ready to feed the Sudanese,

but is reluctant to do the same

for the Ethiopians.

You want to go to Sudan?

What camp?

She's no longer at Um Raquba.

You know there's a war on?

I've got to find her.

I can't wait my entire life.

You won't find her!

Do you want to commit suicide?

- No, I...

- You don't understand!

You haven't understood a thing

about our history.

We're condemned to live!

We came out of Ethiopia

like our ancestors from Egypt.

Snatched from the clutches of death.

We'll have 40 years

of suffering and questions.

So what?

My son was butchered

before me like a dog

by our own guides and their henchmen.

He tried to save his wife

from being raped.

They killed her three days later.

Amongst others.

My wife

died of a broken heart in the camp.

Do you think I can ever forget

their eyes, now gone forever?

Do you think I can ever forget

my son, my daughter-in law and wife?

No.

But I only have one option:

To serve those who survived.

You, for example.

Look at this.

This is all I could rescue:

The Torah.

Go now.

- What's your name?

- Schlomo.

You're cute.

You too.

Do you dance?

I don't know how.

Come on.

I've got to confess something:

I'm not Jewish.

But I feel Jewish.

In a way, I am.

I'm not Jewish,

but I feel Jewish.

That's OK, baby,

I really like you.

But if you want to go any further,

you've got to pay.

Yes, of course...

Lie down.

Baby,

I'll be back.

You touch my sister?

You touch her?

I've got the cash.

I don't give a sh*t about your story!

Do you hear?

I don't give a f*** about your past!

Or your troubles! "We were simply

extras in 'Operation Moses'..."

I don't give a f***! What about us?

What about us?

We're not even in the film.

Left behind there!

Dead!

A simple statistic! Do you hear?

I know you hear me!

Answer me!

Answer me!

He's my son!

Please!

Leave him alone, it's not his fault.

He's my son.

It'll be okay.

I'm not Jewish.

You've known all along, haven't you?

We lived in a small village

in the north.

Aleka and Kidane,

my father and mother.

I had a sister, Tirunesh.

Beautiful, a real princess.

And a big brother, Menelik.

He made me laugh so much.

We had a little bit of land

and a cow:

Mandala.

The army sent my father to fight

against the Eritrean rebels.

He never came back: Dead.

A year later,

the drought killed Mandala.

We left for the south,

heading for a camp.

We set out on foot...

hundreds of kilometers.

My sister was the first to die

of disease and exhaustion.

A mound of earth,

a cross in the middle of the desert.

I don't remember

where my little Tirunesh is buried.

But one day...

One day, I'll find her.

What about your brother?

Where is he?

My mother sent me

for water in the camp.

We had been there for several months.

Water was at the other end

of the camp.

She gave me three coins.

I took the can and went.

I paid up front.

They took the money

and wouldn't fill the can.

They said:
"You didn't pay."

The spring belonged to a gang.

I cried.

I asked them

to give me back my money.

People started to defend me

against the gang.

A fight broke out.

All of a sudden! Violent!

Everyone was on edge.

Then I saw my brother...

in the middle of the fight.

I don't know how he got there

or when.

He came to defend me. I tried

to get to him, but I couldn't.

The Sudanese soldiers showed up

and began hitting everybody.

The crowd dispersed.

Everyone moved aside.

My brother was on the ground.

Dead.

Stabbed for a can of water...

For 3 cents.

It was my fault.

It wasn't your fault.

You were only 9 years old.

Your mother didn't

send you away, Schlomo.

She never wanted to punish you.

You loved him, she knew that.

Then, why? Why?

Why did she forbid me to return?

To save you. So that you would live.

Cry, you're allowed.

Come on, I have a doctor friend.

He'll look after you.

I know you, don't I?

Are you French?

This is Franois Buchman,

French from Strasbourg.

He worked for the Red Cross

and Doctors of the World.

We met in Um Raquba

and became friends.

He's been in Israel for 10 years.

Come in.

Don't move. It'll sting a bit.

I was the one to bury

Hana's real son

in the Um Raquba desert.

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